


Carnival of Fools

by puella_peanut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8382871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_peanut/pseuds/puella_peanut
Summary: The Carnival of Venice is a rich and tantalizing affair, none of which becomes more tempting than in the form of the masked, familiar stranger who has swept a man rather off his feet.





	

When he looks upon them, the streets of Venice burst in an overabundance of color and people in his line of vision; it is a city overstuffed and swollen with all the ripe enchantment only such a vivacious festival can bring.

It is a cornucopia of sounds and sights, dazzling to the eyes, ensnaring to the senses. Laughter is everywhere, though many of its owners remain concealed by fabulous masks of porcelain, of ivory; glass palettes of the finest ink and paint. The beauty is dangerous, sensual and heady and the man enthusiastically steps forward, through silk and musk and capes of heavy gold; into the vanity fair that is the Carnival of Venice.

Like a lush tidal wave, he is pulled and pushed against the undercurrent of excitement that ebbs and flows through the intoxicating multitude of people. He thinks with amusement, as he passes a lavish captain and a richly curved juggler, of his reserved sibling being hauled off earlier by an amusingly painted clown known to them both.They are somewhere here, the man thinks idly to himself, lost in a dizzying swirl of costumes and concealment—or perhaps, in each other. They could be anyone of the swollen crowd—and it is only he, he who is here alone among the fluorescent masses.

And what a shame that is, he waxes loftily to himself, for he knows he is looking his most dapper in tailored black and crimson. He is one of few among many who wears no mask, for he is one of few among many who have nothing to hide—but perched on his head rides a jaunty hat, sloped at a coquettish angle; raven feathers setting off the chopped silver of his hair. Some (and the man's smile sharpens like the talons of a bird as if knowing who the _some_ implies), would say he looks like an overdressed peacock—but he simply shakes his head in disagreement and pulls at the tassels of his jacket as if his colors have been ruffled. The man continues aimlessly through the people, arrogant with the knowledge that he has always worn his feathers well; comfortable in his resplendence, assured in his vanity.

Passing flocks of people, he absorbs whispers of those busily indulging in the liaisons of their kind; he inhales the smoke of affairs, catches the shadows of gossip behind the luring strains of fiddle and fans, or the protection offered by gilded baùtta masks. Behind his leather gloves, the man smirks disdainfully at their foolish play at being something they are not; their indulgence of behaving in ways they normally would not.

He wanders on and at a stall, a drink refreshes him, cools the perspiration from under his feathered brow while acrobats fly from ropes and corded lines, with utter disregard to the cobbled, harsh pavement pillowing their stocking feet. He watches their convoluted display with rapt attention as the evening lanterns are lit, while two helpings of pink champagne bubble swiftly down his throat. As he sets his glass down and moves away to the next area, he finds his footsteps are halted by the unexpected trilling of light taps on his shoulder.

He turns, finding himself facing a more refined, more elegant figure than what he has seen so far despite the more subdued cut of the costume. If the other fair-goers had attempted baroque opulence in their dripping extravagance, Venetian masks and abundant ostrich feathers - than this slim figure in front of him has found their muse in the comforts of a navy-blue frock coat, twisted scarlet piping at its edges. Crème takes flight in ruffled wings from the edges of bell sleeves and the jewel-pinned jabot at the throat falls open over the chest to display matching flounces. The one excess is a richly embroidered sash of mosaic threading looped around a trim waist while immaculate trousers tucked into polished brown boots finish the run of expensive cloth on the stranger's lithe body.

It is the face however, which arrests the man in his study of the opposite form—or the lack of it thereof, for there is so little of it on display. An elaborate porcelain mask conceals much of the sought-after countenance from the man's prying eyes. The hair brushing against its painted ivory is a wig, falling in sheets of black to the shoulders, further hiding identity. Only the generously drawn line of a mouth is on display and it is the mouth that the man turns to, as his other senses are left stilted and halted; obstructed by colorful, if inanimate, porcelain.

"Is there something you desire?" the man's gaze tilts curiously down to the mouth, expecting an answer to issue from somewhere beyond the confines of the lips - but the figure only nods once and rather sharply at that. The mask stares upwards at him and the man feels the weighted gaze press long upon him, unhindered by the social grace of those unmasked.

"What, cat got your tongue?" and the mouth almost immediately widens to a playful, rounded line and the man is deeply amused; why, it is not everyday one finds oneself in the company of a dolled up mime. Especially one with such a mouth as this.

Beyond their sight, music is strung up and a tantalizing tempo floats their way in a turn of capes and a twirl of heavy dresses. The swish of petticoats and the unmistakable pattern of heels against cobblestones pick up as the tune spills dance onto the streets, into the air and the depths of the man's bloodstream with all the ferocity of the tarantella. From the corner of his eyes, he sees the gloved fingers of the silent company at his side flex and stretch as if reaching for the notes of the composition as couples turn the air to disarray around them with their spirited footsteps.

His companion gestures to the couples, then turns towards him and bows gracefully. A hand is extended his way in explicit offering.

"I suppose you expect a dance from me?" the man questions teasingly and the extended hand does not retreat. The palm is turned up, silk covered fingers gesturing impatiently and the man gives in, bowing in a highly theatrical motion, sweeping off his hat so the plumes brush the ground. He can almost feel the sarcasm roll off the unseen eyes of his companion and the man laughs at the absurdity, the sheer irony of it all, coming from a mime such as this.

Nonetheless, he composes his amused form with good grace, reaching for his companion firmly. He chuckles when he has to shift the stranger's posed arms so that he is the one leading and not the other.

"Advantage of height, my silent friend," he taunts and for a moment, there is a shadowed flicker of annoyance across his company's mouth—but then the music begins again and they are off, wheeling about with all the vigor the lively steps ask of them. There is a renewed familiarity in the way that waist fits into his arms, the man finds—a certainty to the angles, a memory which slopes the slender lines. He pulls the other closer without thought, the black hairs of the wig tickling his jawline and is rewarded with a contented smile that softens the otherwise proud tilt of that mouth when the mask is turned up to his face.

Music swells against their senses and the crowd rises, embracing it in perfectly timed footsteps; they are infected with the sensuality of the city, the intoxication of the carnival, the allure of the land. The man feels the rush of a heartbeat against his chest and finds his own to be matching; a series of rhythmic drumming masterfully timed. He turns the other with practiced eased and watches the graceful swirl of the sash as it turns with his partner. He thinks proudly to himself, of how well he's finally mastered the correct footing—those seemingly endless drills in formal dance all those years ago have finally paid off, though the exasperated voice lecturing him still echoes in his ears.

The man considers smugly, when his companion returns to the confines of his arms after several dips and timed pivots, that they look very well together; the finest pair to be seen this evening, he's certain of it. When the music draws to its end, he and his partner are left breathing rather heavily, clothing upset to wrinkles with the pace of their movements and the firm steerage of hands upon fabric—but they finish in trained style; one with a graceful bow, the other with a flamboyant bend and dip of a feathered hat. When the music takes off again in a whirlwind of gaiety, they make their way off the impromptu dance floor, the theatrical one escorting his more refined partner with a pull of an arm that is far more gallant than it is graceful.

They catch their breaths in the new rising moonlight from the sidelines and watch the people dance on, well beyond their own capabilities at the moment.

"Now, I've given you what you've wanted," the man begins after his breath finds even footing, "and now you must pay your due." Beside him, the figure tilts his head as if in contemplation, before nodding, a hand placed over the heart as to authenticate a gentleman's promise. The man smirks, tapping a finger against his chin. "Now what shall your payment be?" he questions, with all the sincerity of a born scapegoat.

His companion acts out the shrugging of shoulders, feigning bafflement; but in the lamplight, the man catches the betraying flicker of a coy smile and matches it with one of his own. In two strides, he bridges the gap between them, taking hold of a hand. The glove slips off with an unclasping of a button and the man runs his thumb over a hand most familiar to him; he's been memorized by these slender fingers as they have skirted across musical keys; felt them warm and unblemished by their disgraceful lack of swordplay in his own; seen them grasp and scrabble uselessly against mattresses, while silken sheets evaded their trembling fingers.

Why yes indeed, he's altogether too familiar with these hands and what they can and have done to a man such as himself. He brings the fingers to his lips, watching the masked face before him. He feels, rather than hears the subtle intake of breath; he witnesses the firm press of lips against any noise that might forsake their otherwise composed features.

There is a gleam in the man's smile. "That was my first due, for all the words that you have not spoken while in the keeping of my excellent company," and he knows beyond sight, that the figure before him is caught between merriment and a scolding directed towards his greed. The man's smile deepens, cuts across his face with promise and he knows the other does indeed have a point regardless, for he has always been an insatiable, spoiled man and he knows of one who has indulged his many whims, even against better judgement.

His hand reaches; running down the side to the waist and lingers impolitely at the bow of the embroidered sash over the hip, before he gathers the other towards him by its trailing, convenient fabric. Against him, he feels that unmistakable framework pulled taut and waiting beneath velvet cloth; slender hands, one naked and ungloved, entwine in the lapels of his crimson jacket. The man places his finger under the chin, tilts it firmly up; he is certain that behind the mask, those eyes - a peculiar shade of blue that he is rather partial to - will flutter to a close, sooty lashes against delightfully flushed cheeks.

Whatever space left between them vanishes when his mouth covers the lips that have long since bewitched his senses. Beyond the comforts of their shadowed position, lutes and harps serenade a gathering of silk and tassels, lace and porcelain and they go unnoticed; unhindered in their thoroughly improper display. In the darkness of their corner, the kiss lingers luxurious and lush in its illicitness; unwinding all sense of propriety and the staged theatrics of earlier hours. They kiss unscripted, in context with none but themselves; it is only the moon that is their audience tonight and he will not be a teller of their tale.

Pulling away at last, the man is left breathless but pleased at the results of his work for he finds that his familiar stranger has unraveled like a line of silk in his arms; coming undone in grasping fingers and racing heartbeat in the quiet alcoves of the festivity surrounding them.

He brushes his thumb across reddened lips and tucks the wig's hair behind a ear he has whispered all the secrets of the night into for thousands of decades, for hundreds of centuries. For a moment, he fancies he catches a glimpse of a dark brown wave that has wandered astray from the false black confines.

_"Little Master,"_ the man cannot help but gloatingly whisper as he leans down, "I have known from the start it was you."

But if he expects surprise, he is left wanting—for the lips he looks at are curved instead by mockery, by ridicule—by a rare flash of playfulness before their temperamental sweetness is sharpened to a dangerous smile. Reaching up, that tempting mouth brushes against the man's ear in their turn.

"Forgive me, but I dearly wanted you to, _Preußen,"_ and Prussia is left utterly flabbergasted _—why the little wretch!—_ and he frowns half in annoyance, half in lusty amusement as he is beaten at his own game. His frown deepens even more as those pretty fingers tantalizingly waltz against the brass buttons of his jacket. A brush of lips sardonically touch his jawline, while an altogether aggravating and attractive chortle follow triumphantly in his ear. Distracted, Prussia discovers too late that the stolen glove once tucked into his breast-pocket as a favor of the night has been returned to its rightful owner.

So he reaches to catch the elusive little thief, with all the intent of restoring him to the proper place of his own arms—

—but his searching fingers only catch the whispers of cloth, the remains of a secret; for in an enchanting swirl of crème and porcelain, Austria vanishes into the crowd and is gone.


End file.
